


Heartbeats, stitch and sinew

by deviltakehimback



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, berena - Freeform, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8000800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deviltakehimback/pseuds/deviltakehimback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bernie Wolfe has so many reasons to be heartless, but none of them stick. </p><p>Ficlet, a love letter to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeats, stitch and sinew

Heartbeats stop being romantic when you have to physically force someone's heart to work with your bare hands. And when you've failed at that, too. A stopped heart feels like leaving home, knowing it will be empty when you return.

\- - -

Skin loses its mystery when you spend every day cutting into it, unlocking its secrets and laying everything bare. And then stitching it up again. Rinse, repeat.

\- - -

Blood should be worshipped; that which sees every inch of a body and is content to make the same journey, day in, day out. In theory, this is beautiful, though it should never be seen. The seeing, the part where you're elbow-deep in it, or it's pouring from your own chest - that is one of the ugliest things in the world.

\- - -

Hands are merciful. They cut and stitch and save. They live in gloves and swim in blood. They hurt. They heal. They have seen more than they should.

\- - -

Eyes offer tell-tale signs, those windows to the soul. They tell so much about the body's response to the outside world; a doctor's best friend. And nightmare. When they roll into a patient's head or stop moving altogether. You grow accustomed to the cold stare, in time. You never get used to it.

\- - -

And this is why Bernie Wolfe's main requirement in a partner, first and foremost, is a good mind. Not in a neurosurgical sort of way.  That, it turns out, is the wrong kind of knowledge. 

She is no neurosurgeon and she knows little about them. She is acutely aware of the difference between grey matter and the mind. It's hard to find a good one, but it's hard not to fall in love with it once you do. It's easier when you know nothing about it, to start from scratch and build again.

After that, the other component parts regain their beauty.

\- - -

Serena's eyes can find her anywhere, and pierce through her armour like nobody else. They can speak volumes, and Bernie is astonished at just how much she can pour into a look. It helps her through countless procedures, knowing that Serena's eyes are guiding her. It also gives her hope, that an old sod like her can still be wanted.

Serena's hands are a marvel. For all that they have seen and done, they are still strong and careful. They can do wonders of healing and helping. They hold fast and give new meaning to the space between Bernie's fingers. They thread together, all softness and sinew, in stolen moments. They grab on to Bernie for dear life and she knows she will never let go of this.

\- - -

Serena's blood boils hot and fast, should anyone dare question what they have. Bernie understands this, as only a soldier can, and vows to offer that same protection in kind.

\- - -

Serena's skin is warm and kind and heats itself to stave off winter chills, spreading fire across mapped edges as Bernie stretches, unfolded, alongside her.

Bernie's favourite evening pursuit, wrecked in so many ways after a day of diligent doctoring, is to lay her head on Serena's chest and listen to her heartbeat.

It is music to tired bones. It is soothing. It is home.

\- - -

 


End file.
